


And I'm Lonely (there, i said it)

by keyringkie



Series: their blessing, his burden [3]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Gen, Gods AU, Mentioned Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Mild descriptions of violence, So many bones, backstory pog, basically prequel fic of sorts, bones - Freeform, forever unfinished, just how we got to fate is a fickle thing, no beta we die like philza to the baby zombie, no fourth chapter :(
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:08:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27879614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keyringkie/pseuds/keyringkie
Summary: It wasn’t always the three of them. First, they were alone.Or: The history of Wilbur, Phil, and Techno, and how the three became friends. It’s strange now, to think that these three didn’t always know each other.
Relationships: familial relationships - Relationship, found family amirite, platonic only
Series: their blessing, his burden [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2028108
Comments: 34
Kudos: 221





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello!!! sorry for dying for a while. Got too many ideas and then Carrot released their ARG so i got really distracted LMAO. anyways enjoy :)

It’s cold.

His breath clouds in front of his face, fogging up his glasses for a fleeting few seconds at a time. The metal bands on his arms bite at his skin, and yet he remains.

Wilbur doesn’t know how long he’s been in the mountains. The snow and ice are comforting, the nothingness and stillness calm him. The snow seems to taunt him, the gleaming white hurting his eyes. (It’s not as much of a comfort as he’d like to admit, it reminds him too much of the blinding white, but he takes what he can get.) 

So he sits, criss-cross, on top of a mountain. The air is still. 

He hums to mask the silence. Mask the pain.

The emptiness around him seems to taunt him. It’s too quiet. If he goes anywhere else, it’s too loud. So he shuts down. Let his mind go blank. Sits in the empty void, a single melody echoing through his brain.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there. When he opens his eyes again, the sun is rising. The night has passed. Wilbur doesn’t know if it was just one or several.

He can’t remember the song. He wishes he could.

The cold bites at his skin, a harsh breeze storming past. He exhales slowly, watching his breath dissolve, the wind pushing it too fast to see. He ignores the hole in his chest, letting the cold bring him some sort of feeling.

Even then, he goes numb. Even with the cold threatening to eat him alive, he stops feeling anything. And that scares him more than he’d like to admit.

Being a god is a tiring job.

Elsewhere, Phil labors over the newest branch of the afterlife.

He has no reason to expand - there’s plenty space for the ones here, but the projects always give him time for himself. Time to do something, pour all his time and effort into it and then enjoy the results.

Building is always a laborious process. The afterlife is Phil’s domain. He usually doesn’t mess with it too much - it throws the spirits off - but in branches where nobody else has yet to enter, he can go wild.

The gravity shifts at his will, making his leaps across the hall all the more faster as he tugs along a large stack of raw quartz, careful not to let any fall.

He deposits the stack in the chest he’s placed there, sighing as he shuts it. He rifles in his bag for his notes, pulling them out and reviewing his plans for the ten thousandth time.

He’s just about to transport another stack of materials before he’s interrupted. There’s a chime, its echo all-too familiar. His heart sinks as he drops the documents and bounds out of the hall, lifting off easily and soaring through the underworld, dodging the floating lights as he weaves his way towards the gates, the silver glowing faintly in the dim light. He lands gracefully, using his momentum to run over to the gates and fling them open. He exhales slowly as he takes in the small crowd before him.

There're thirty or fourty of them, huddled together. Who knows how long they’ve been wandering, how long it took them to find their way here. All of the dead naturally walk towards the nearest gate, however their routes aren’t always… direct. Phil grimaces.

He meets the eyes of a child, alone, and takes her hand. “Welcome home.”

Technoblade wanders the world, watching massacre after massacre, patterns repeat themselves, heroes raise themselves and die too early. History has hardly begun, and yet it manages to repeat itself.

Sometimes Techno feels sorry for these people. He hardly ever meets them. He doesn’t know who they are.

Yet they throw themselves into battle, willingly or otherwise, knowing they could die.

He never knows how the battles start, if he’s honest. They call him a god of war, but that’s not what he is.

He’s the god of bloodshed. The god of the destruction such wars leave behind, the god of the haze of smoke and ash abandoned by those no longer living. Not that anyone bothers to ask him. He hardly sees anyone, anyways. The only person he really runs into consistently is Dream, leaving the battle as Techno arrives.

Technoblade may be the god of what is left behind, but Dream is the god of the fight. The thrill of combat, the strategies, the glories of war.

They share so much in common, yet all they have between them is a mutual understanding. An acquaintanceship, if you’re feeling generous. 

He never tires of the destruction he sees. It’s not lonely, not quite. The emptiness gives him a sense that he lost something, even if he’s never been here before. He knows no faces, knows no story, yet he knows that there is nothing here anymore.

And if the world has any respect, there never will be again.

And so the trio is just three, far apart and unaware. Wilbur doesn’t know where their paths converge, only that they do eventually. (There’s a reason there were more than just one or two creation gods. Knowing your whole fate can be… dangerous.) Techno only knows that all the spirits head in one direction - the underworld. Phil knows where these people come from, wonders why they must be here.

Their stories intertwine. But not quite yet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Technoblade met Philza. (the only god he really had any chance of meeting, it seems.)

It’s eating him up.

The loss. Not his own, but the weight of _their_ guilt, _their_ wrongdoings. _Their_ regrets.

Techno is tired of seeing this endless loop. Not for his own sake, but for them. The people who die too early, too fast. Die in war they never asked to be a part of. Caught in the crossfire of battle.

So he abandons his post. Stops following Dream for once in his life. 

For the first time since his creation, Techno doesn’t know where to go. His senses tug him onwards, forwards, towards more destruction, war, battle. He turns away, wandering elsewhere.

Eventually, he notices the spirits. The wisps of people that wander the world, searching for the nearest gate. The entrance to the afterlife. (The only way out of this damned world.)

So Techno follows them.

They’re a rare sight at first - it’s hard to see them, as they often flicker in and out of view. As he draws closer, their groups get bigger, and he sees them more frequently.

He stumbles on the gates by chance, clicking the pressure plate that lays before the hidden doors. Vines and stone rumble aside, revealing sterling silver gates, decorated by wing decals. The metal swirls around in patterns, a welcoming sort of warmth radiating off merely the entrance.

They’re swung open a moment later, a worried blond standing before him.

The wings are the first thing that catch his eye. Dark gray, shimmering slightly purple in the dim light. There’s a few stray white feathers towards the tips. They hang relaxed, almost touching the floor.

His gaze wanders, noting the extremely pale skin. He wears a strange crown, almost unnoticeable among the mess of blond hair. His clothes are dusty, and a little off-center.

The man has been sizing him up and down, hesitating a moment.

“Are you coming in?”

Techno smiles, finger tracing the handle of his sword.

“Is that an invitation?”

The man leans on the gate slightly, waving his hands. “I s’pose it is. You’re clearly not dead, so you’re either a hero or a god.”

Techno takes a few steps inside, and the man sighs, the gates clanging shut.

“The name’s Philza. Phil. God of… everything under here.”

Techno shakes his hand, the other never once leaving his sword.

“Technoblade. God of death, wars, destruction.”

“Ah, well, pleasure to meet you. Would you like a tour?”

Techno isn’t sure what to make of Phil.

At first, he’s someone to talk to. Make noise with. It’s not too often he makes conversation with anyone, what with Dream rarely encountering him and only seeing fleeting glances of others every few decades.

So Phil is a strange new constant in his life. Someone he can depend upon to be there. It’s not hard to find Phil, really. He never leaves the afterlife. Techno just needs to find the nearest gate and Phil will be there.

The afterlife is strangely beautiful. An enormous hollowed out cavern, ever-expanding. The ceiling is barely visible from the floor, a hazy fog drifting around the tallest reaches of the space. Floating lights and lanterns dot the skies, casting dim light upon the small islands bobbing through the air. Pathways wind precariously across the space, vines growing downwards and winding across these paths. Golden berries glow faintly, illuminating the flowers and vines. Plants grow sparingly, but where they do bloom they add a touch of life to a beautiful world.

Techno spends more time there than he’d like to admit. There’s a sort of peace that comes from lingering there. The spirits never bother him.

He builds himself a home there. Phil clears out a space for him, a small island hovering near the walls. The view is stunning, overlooking large entrances and sprawling buildings, not to mention the dozens of other islands dotting the skies. 

It’s a welcome change of pace, to say the least. Exploring a life somewhere stable is new. The spirits leave him alone. Phil doesn’t, but his companionship is welcome. A presence as steady as his new home.

Home…

A word he never knew the meaning of until now. Perhaps he can learn. Perhaps he already has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DANCES SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG!!! IT IS SO HARD TO WRITE OH MY GOD
> 
> these updates are so short and sporadic lmao my bad


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur is alone. And suddenly he is not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THESE UPDATES ARE TAKING LONGER AND IT FEELS LIKE THEY ARE GETTING SHORTER DDHFOIWEHFOIDSHFDSLJ

He is so, so lost.

Wilbur rubs his arms, the bands around them biting as they pinch closer and closer to his skin. It hurts. They won’t come off, as much as he tries. He never asked to be a god, never chose his fate.

Does it count as “being lost” if you have no destination?

He wonders, quietly, if this is his fate. He knows that it most likely isn’t, that sometime in his life he will meet someone and they will be family. But he doesn’t know _when_ , and he wonders if the chances that he will be alone forever are plausible.

He might fade out, at this rate. Forgotten and alone. A blissful release from the mortal realm. But until then, he wanders.

Wanders through towns, civilizations, cities, communities evolving through time and patience, trades and wars and peace. Through mountains, cold and unforgiving, and plains, warm and lonely and quiet. Through oceans and skies and wind and rain and snow, through storms and disasters and calm. 

He watches the world evolve before his very eyes. Watches the people grow, become. Thrive, almost.

He watches, a mere bystander in the universe. Wilbur knows his fate.

Perhaps knowing _what_ is worse than knowing _when_.

The universe is not kind.

The universe was never _meant_ to be kind. Wilbur should know this better than anyone, really. He visits the Nook more than he’d like to admit, watching the strings fade, searching for his own. (He’ll never find them, of course. Some things are never meant to be known.)

He lets time pass. Too much time, really. It’s always cold now, even in the deserts where the metal burns against his skin but he shivers nonetheless, his footsteps leaving no marks on the shifting sand.

The rain seems to burn his skin now. He avoids it most of the time, though sometimes he stands in the middle of a storm and watches himself melt away slowly, before he sighs and leaves and reforms. _Not yet,_ a voice whispers. _T_ _hey’re waiting for you_.

Wilbur wishes he didn’t know his future. Wishes he didn’t know what could be when he watches families form, when he watches friendships be made, when he sees other gods for just a few fleeting moments and watches their companionship, watches thrill after thrill, life after life.

He is alone. Why is he alone?

He takes sanctuary in a war. Or, rather, the remains of one.

A battleground, really. Littered with the bones of those long passed, the stench of blood still prominent after so many years. Dull metal shines, weapons long abandoned littering the clearing.

Nobody ever visits, and so he stays since it is peaceful and he is surrounded by those who he cannot be jealous of, because he is with nobody and bones cannot talk in a way he can understand. They have just moved on.

Nothing ever changes, really. He doesn’t build a house, doesn’t bother cleaning the grounds, but he leaves footsteps and it hardly ever rains.

And suddenly he has a visitor.

Wilbur recognizes him on sight. The golden laurels decorating braided pink hair, a steel sword glowing red in its scabbard. A god just as lonely as he.

Wilbur knows Technoblade. Not, per say, as well as some of the others, the ones he will never meet, the ones he had created with little assistance. But knows him nonetheless.

Techno does not know him, just sees the pitiful god before him, alone in a battleground that stinks of death, and all he knows is that there is something familiar in front of him that he has only seen once before in the underground, in the afterlife, in wings and comfort and… home.

The only sound is the whistle of the wind, trailing past, humming in the hollows of the bones and the earth, and Wilbur clears his throat and hums along to the song of the universe.

Techno stops. And he listens.

And he is reminded of hardship and loss, of victory, of destruction. Of finding a path and losing his way and going to a home he never knew he needed, tucked away and under and safe.

He sees the world, the cosmos, and he sees Wilbur, a bittersweet god of power and of song. A pitiful image, surrounded by his own footprints and the ones who have passed.

So he steps around the bones of those long past.

And Wilbur takes his hand.

And there is an understanding that they do not know each other but there is respect and there is family.

And they are together, and it is warm, and they are going home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for taking ten days to update again HAHHAHA
> 
> i promise i'm not done with this au yet :) i just have so much motivation for one specific part that i want to write but i should finish a few other fics first so that it makes sense????? so i am pouring all my time into a fic that might never get published.
> 
> OH WELL

**Author's Note:**

> :D


End file.
